


Double-take

by red_as_ever



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Gen, Guns For Hire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_as_ever/pseuds/red_as_ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contribution to the Guns for Hire AU on tumblr: York is a little too interested by the inner workings of the helmet-manufacturing industry. This was my response to the prompt "How does York lose his eye in GFH?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When York hired on with the mercenary group, Texas gave him three rules:

  1. Don’t touch without permission
  2. Always let Recovery know where you’re going
  3. Never mess with the helmet manufacturers. Especially not Charon.



Now, that first one has been beaten into his skull (quite literally), and he supposes he understands the importance of the second (because, hey, even Tex would care if something happened to him).

But… Charon? He’s raided Charon before. Granted, they weren’t particularly happy about it, and given Carolina’s suspicions that they sponsor that rival merc gang who has been harassing the For Hires? Moving against Charon could be a really bad idea.

Or a really awesome one. If only he had an excuse to raid their computers. Tex couldn’t fault him for that, and hey, brownie points with Carolina are a great bonus.

So when a fashionista corners him in Errera, wanting to hire him to steal design schematics from Charon’s local tech center? Of course he says yes.

Maybe he even hacks into Wash’s helmet locker to drop off a note. Better not push his luck with Tex.

***** 

Most nights at the Errera found the club filled with light and noise, the air thick with music and laughter and voices straining to be heard above it. The patrons didn’t just come for the drinks and the dancing, though that did help. They came because the thick glass and metal of walls and windows kept the clouds out. Thick though the walls were, they promised freedom: from helmets, from asphyxiation, from plague.

Most of the For Hires revel in this. That’s the only reason Wash ever comes. York in particular revels in life without a helmet, where bright and distinctive clothing fall second to diverse eyes and expressions and skin. So rare, and so beautiful. And when York thinks something is beautiful, someone should probably be there to pull him out of the fire.

Except that York isn’t actually here tonight. Wash rolls his eyes at the note in his locker (“Job at Charon. Don’t tell Tex”). He would hope the Thief is kidding, but York doesn’t joke like that.

Sighing, Wash makes his way up to their usual table. Here on the main floor, the air is thick with music and laughter and voices straining to be heard above it. He’ll be much more comfortable up on the third floor at their private table, where they can actually talk and, y’know, breathe. His mood lifts when he sees that Florida, 479er, and Carolina are already here. Thank goodness he isn’t the first one up, doesn’t have to fend off drunken visitors.

“You’re early,” Carolina says.

“So are you,” Wash says, shrugging. “Thought you and Florida would be out late scouting jobs.”

“You know how it goes,” Florida says. “Sometimes the clients aren’t as lively.”

“Happens when you have a plague cloud moving in,” 479er says.

That’s right. They’ve predicted a storm for tonight. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Some places lower their security when the clouds move in. It’s like they’re asking to be robbed.”

“C’mon, Wash. Everyone knows that’s a trap,” Florida says.

“One Charon plans to spring tonight,” Carolina says.

Wash reaches into his pocket for York’s note. “Wait, what?”

“Apparently Charon Industries has it out for someone,” Florida says. “They’ve hired someone to hit them and they’re going to take them out in the process. Not a bad idea, as long as the poor sucker doesn’t hear about it in advance.”

The note crumples in his hand. “York was hired to hit Charon tonight.”

Panic dawns in his friends’ faces. “Florida, tell Sister to hold our drinks,” Carolina says. “Wash, let’s go. Niner, we need a ride.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plague clouds settle the night York breaks in.

Has York mentioned that he’d been to Charon before? Because he has. And even though they’ve had months to update their security, they certainly haven’t. As if changing their password is going to keep him out. And, thanks to the plague clouds, there are fewer guards who could walk in while he works.

 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t careful. He isn’t so stupid that he’d saunter through Charon Industries. Not with his boots uncomfortably loud against the tiles. The air purification system is down for some reason. Without its ambient noise, he can hear the guards conversing somewhere on this floor. He sneaks underneath the security camera (how do they not know about that blind spot?) toward the elevator.

Not that he’s going to take the elevator. He did last time, when he raided the office of the visor designer; Connie wanted a preview of some tech updates, and who could say no to that face? This time, though, the offices won’t help much. Not when he’s after both financial data and design schematics. He’ll have to head past the security center to the “janitorial closet” with the suspiciously locked door. AKA hidden stairs. Keeping the mainframe in the basement may be inconvenient, but it adds a layer of defense: plague clouds settle in low places. On nights like tonight, a deadly brume will fill the computer bays. Forget breathing; navigating the room will be hard enough.

(Again with the plague clouds.)

The guards’ voices grow louder the closer he gets to the security center. Figures. He steadies his rifle against his chest. Not that he wants to kill any of them, but if they shoot… well, they may be within their rights, but he will definitely shoot back.

York peeks around the corner. … Nothing. He checks again. The guards still chatter. Yeah, their voices definitely emanate from that room on the right. The security center. York creeps closer to that door with quiet, careful steps.

"So, storm tonight."

"How many people do you think it’ll take this time?"

Deep breath. They’re talking too much to notice him. He sprints across the doorway, flattens himself against the wall. Waits.

"Depends. When’s the last time they cleaned out the slums?"

York definitely does not heave a sigh of relief. No reason to blow an already-successful maneuver. He slips over to the locked staircase and eases his lockpicks out of his jacket.

Again with the easy locks. Smiling to himself, he opens the door just enough to sneak in and head down the stairs. He has to close the door behind him; only the glow of the computers illuminates the room. Picking his way down the stairs may just be the hardest part of this mission.

Not only does he survive, he finds a console sitting right at the base of the stairs. Perfect. He plugs right in and starts digging. The preliminary search finds his client’s information rather quickly. While that loads to his data file, he initiates a deeper search for the company’s financial logs.

Nothing comes up.

He scowls, taps the terminal. That can’t be right. There’s a hardline to the hard drives right—no. There’s not. Scraping his foot against the floor doesn’t kick up any wires.

He’s giving the screen a particularly incredulous look when he hears the shouts upstairs. Gunshots follow. Someone else is breaking in, taking advantage of the plague clouds to make a raid on Charon. Maybe they’re on their way out from the offices, or maybe the noise is a diversion to get someone into the basement.

He doesn’t have time to keep searching. For now, he needs to hide. He rips his drive from the computer.

Hears an ominous click like a grating pressure plate. Or the pull of a grenade pin.

Whatever is inside of the console, he manages to put the chair in between them before it explodes.


	3. Chapter 3

Carolina hardly waits for 479er to stop in front of Charon Industries before she’s out of the car, rifle in hand. “Don’t move. We’ll be right out.” She sprints away, wisps of plague clouds swirling around her.

“Carolina—“ Wash wants to point out that running into a business center with guns blazing is not the best plan she’s ever had. Unfortunately, he has to run to catch up with her, and the only thing worse than her current plan would be her going in alone.

She kicks the door open, scans the hall, slides in. Gray-green mist trails her. Wash does, too. They blitz through the filtration room into a hallway limned in gray light. Someone shouts within the building. Wash tightens his grip on his gun.

Too late. A guard rounds the corner and Carolina has shot him before either man can react. She peeks around. Fires twice. Two bodies hit the floor. Wash checks left. No one.

And she’s off again.

She hasn’t stopped since Errera. Didn’t even relax on the drive over, and 479er’s driving is nothing to panic about. He’s worried about York, too, but overreacting won’t help anyone.

Something explodes deep in the building. The lights tremble with the vibration, and okay, now Wash is panicking too.

“At least we know he’s not upstairs?” he asks. He wants to lighten the mood, but the only thing lifting is the pitch of his voice. Carolina darts off in the direction of the explosion.

They pass several rooms, only one of which is occupied. Two guards monitor a security feed at its back. Carolina and Wash each shoot one.

Only then can they check the door to the left. The one that smolders with haze too black to be part of the gathering plague clouds.

“It’s locked,” Carolina says, stepping back for Wash to open it.

“Me? I don’t do locks!” That’s York’s job. That’s why they’re here.

She snarls and redirects her rifle. Wash flinches back despite himself, but she’s not aiming at him. Just shooting out the lock. It’s hardly her usual stealth, but they’ve cleared the first floor, and it’s not like there isn’t already property damage for Charon to worry about.

“You find York,” she says. “I’ll clear the room.”

“Right.” He fumbles for the light switch. Carolina stands at the ready.

Harsh yellow lights flare, and Wash’s target is pretty obvious. York lies prone at the base of the stairs. A mangled chair covers his lower body, probably sparing it from the explosion. Wash can’t see his face, not through the helmet, but there is definitely a puddle of blood forming beneath him.

York might need another helmet if they’re going to get him out through the plague clouds.

Carolina looks from York to Wash to the door. She must have come to the same conclusion because she sprints back into the hall, leaving him to assess the damage.

Wash runs. He skips several stairs and almost tumbles down the rest of them. “York?”

York starts to lift his head. Whimpers. Curls in on himself with his right arm raised to shelter his face.

“York.” Wash skids to his knees. Pulls the chair off him.

York’s arm flops to the floor. “Wash?” The sound makes Wash’s stomach flip. He wants to be relieved to hear his friend’s voice, but his tone is thick with pain.

“Where are you hurt?” Wash asks. There’s so much blood, all seeping from the side York sprawls on. Wash reaches to move him flat on his back.

“No.” York grabs at him with one hand. The other had been pinned by the chair; it twitches in faint protest. Wash takes it in his own, tightens it in consolation. Then pushes York over.

This time York screams. He clasps Wash’s hand with agonized strength. And Wash holds it back with equal vigor because he hates being right, he hates seeing the visor shattered and knowing there’s damage beneath it that he can’t see.

Carolina reappears at his side, breaking the paralysis. A helmet thuds to the floor. Wash doesn’t ask who she took it from, just slides it closer to him.

“How bad is he?” Carolina asks.

He pulls a roll of bandages out of his kit. Hands them to her. York’s arm and side are definitely bleeding, but nothing as bad as the damage beneath the visor.

Damage that may only worsen when they switch helmets. Not that they have a choice with the plague clouds thickening outside the building. Before sliding it off, Wash reaches inside. If any shards could scrape loose and further tear York’s face, he wants to know. His fingers come back uncut but wet with blood. He doesn’t want to know what that says about the shrapnel damage. Doesn’t want to know how much worse they might make it when they try to stop the bleeding.

Wash lets go of York’s hand to fumble with the catch on his helmet. He snags it back with his good hand, tugs it away.

“York. We have to replace your helmet.”

“No.” The protest is as vehement as it is faint.

“York, please—“

“No.”

Wash slams his fist into the floor. “This is no time for vanity, York. We have clouds coming and we have got to get you into something with a complete visor. Or do you want to—“

York says nothing. Just tightens his hand on Wash’s. He stops talking, hears the weak rasp of York’s breath. Is he crying?

“Sorry.”

“’s k.”

Wash turns to Carolina. She says nothing, just puts the bandages in her lap and reaches for the helmet. He slips his hands free of too-tight fingers. Slides them up York’s neck to the base of the seal so York won’t have to support the weight himself. “Ready?”

Carolina tugs, York yelps, and he catches a head slick with sweat. York tries to look away, to hide the damage. Too late. Wash merely glimpsed the wicked lines of red that streak across his friend’s skin, radiating across his forehead, his cheek, his eye—and that glimpse is all he could stand.

Carolina presses a bandage over the ruined side of York’s face. Not particularly hard. Enough to make him wince, but not gasp. It probably won’t slow the bleeding much, but it’ll pad the wound, at least. Together they ease the replacement helmet over York’s head. His breathing quiets, becomes the faint rasp of the respirator.

“We’ve got to get him to Grey,” Carolina says.

Wash nods. “I have him.” He lifts York by his good arm, heaves his friend up onto his back. York doesn’t respond. Hopefully he’s finally unconscious. His helmet rests uncomfortably against Wash’s shoulder, but Wash doesn’t dare complain.

“Let’s get him out of here.”


	4. Chapter 4

He comes to slowly, rising out of chemical numbness to the prickling sting of his injuries when he shifts in bed. Not his bed—the room smells too clean, too sterile, to be his. He can hear whispers among the beeping machines and he turns his head toward them.

Agony blossoms behind his left eye. His breath catches and he bites back a sob.

“York?” Carolina’s voice, followed by footsteps. “Are you awake?”

There’s a hand on the side of his face. He wants to press his cheek into it, to fade into that touch, away from the throbbing pain of his eye. He doesn’t want to see her concern.

“York. Look at me.”

He does. Gray light filters in through his eyelashes. A redhead and a blonde stand over him.

“Hey,” Wash says, his voice soft as the lighting.

For a moment, they say nothing. York has many questions but none he dares ask, and fewer that they probably want to answer.

But with each heartbeat echoing in the left side of his face, the most pressing question bubbles up until it escapes.

“My eye?”

He gets his answer when Wash cringes away, when fingers brush away a tear he didn’t know he’d shed. When fearless Carolina has to look away from him.

“No.” The darkness in his eye begins burning in his chest. This can’t be happening. Not to him.

“York.”

He turns away from the touch, pressing his bad eye into the pillow. “No.” He can’t live half-blind. He’s a mercenary. No one will hire a man with half vision. The doctor had to be wrong.

“York—“

He’s going to get up now. He’s going to walk into the next room and sit her down down and tell her that she is wrong. That he will be able to see. He reaches up to tear the bandage away. He’ll show them. They’ll see. His eye will be fine.

Someone catches his hand, clings to it. “Don’t.”

He tries to pull away. They’re hurting him. Their touches and their pity are as much a testament as the bandage. He can’t bear the pain he saw before tears blinded him.

“Please.” He wants them to leave but knows they won’t. He has to get away. He starts to sit up, ignoring the pain lancing through his left arm when he puts weight on it.

“Easy.” Hands press down on his shoulders. They’re going to keep him here, in this place with its half-light and its shadows and the bandage pressing on his eye. He reaches to move the hands off of his shoulders, and when that doesn’t work, he rolls to force them aside.

“Hey.” That’s Wash’s voice, strained because he’s trying to sound calm. York fights harder.

“Doctor Grey!” Carolina shouts.

Now he’s writhing, trying to forget the pain. To get up, to escape. Because things can’t go wrong if they can’t catch you. He can get out, get away, find that place away from the pain and that thing that no one has said yet.

But that black fire flares behind one eye, blinding them both. The pain is burning its way into his brain. The hands on his shoulders won’t let him run. He’s stuck on this bed in this room with that truth unspoken, his shouts of denial ringing off the walls.

Please. No.

Something pierces his arm, little more than a pinch compared to the agony that’s drowning him. And then it’s cold and it’s spreading through the flood, and the world is fading with it


	5. Chapter 5

For three days, York’s been shut in the recovery room. Doctor Grey won’t let anyone see him. This morning, Carolina tries again while she’s down at breakfast. If Carolina is turned away this time, it had better be York speaking to her.

She arrives at his door at the same time as Tex. The Soldier only just got back in town from a hit; thank goodness Carolina’s here to head her off at York’s door. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Checking up on York after someone had the bright idea to send him after Charon,” Tex says.

Carolina bristles. “You think I sent him?”

“You’ve been after Charon for months. Who else?” Tex asks.

“I wouldn’t have sent him,” she says. “I knew it was a trap. He did this on his own.”

“And now we have no thief,” Tex says. “Because York did something stupid.”

Carolina draws herself up to her full height. She’s still shorter than Tex. Ire flares up inside her. “Maybe. But that’s between him and me. You stay out of this.”

“Stay out of this?” Anger edges Tex’s voice. “I told you to stay out of Charon’s business because it would only end in disaster. You didn’t listen.”

The worst part is, she’s right. If not for her curiosity, York never would have been at Charon industries. Still, acknowledging it only increases her need to punch Tex in the face.

“And it’s not going to end here,” Tex continues. “First Georgia, now York. Who’s next?”

“That’s mercenary life,” Carolina says. “That’s what we chose.”

“No. It’s what you chose. And the rest of us have to deal with it now.” Tex shifts her weight forward. Just a touch, but enough that Carolina shifts hers in return.

“That’s what this is about,” Carolina says. “You’re not here to talk to York. You’re here to get back at me.”

Tex shrugs. “You won’t listen to me. I’d hoped he would help convince you, now.”

“I don’t need convincing,” Carolina snarls. She swings at the other woman. Tex sidesteps her, pulls her arm back—

Something lands in the recovery room with a dull thud. Carolina steps away from Tex, back toward the door. Tex lets her go. Shakes her head. Just leaves.

Carolina’s too worried about York to care. She swings the door open. Sure enough, he tried to get out of bed. He’s curled up on his good side, breathing hard with his face pressed against his forearm.

“York! What were you thinking?” She kneels at his side and rolls him onto his back. He protests, tries to bat her hand away.

“Hey,” she says. Grabbing his hand, she leans down so he can see her with his good eye. He looks up, frantic.

“You.” He swallows hard. Tries again. “You aren’t fighting.”

“Um. No.”

“Good,” he whispers.

“Excuse me?” The discussion with Tex is her business, not his.

“You’re the boss,” he says. “You’re supposed to fight Charon. Not us.”

She…doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. “We’re not going to fight Charon,” she says.

“You’ll have to,” he says. “Tex is right. I blew it.”

She wants to shake him until she knocks the self-pity from him. “Tex is wrong,” she says. “You’ll heal. We’ll recover. That’s all we can do.”

She pulls him into a sitting position. He groans in protest. When she puts his arm over her shoulder, he clutches her as if the floor is falling out beneath him. They haven’t even stood up yet. Either he’s worse off than she thought, or Doctor Grey has him on something potent.

Whatever the case, she has to do most of the work maneuvering him back into bed. He sinks limp-limbed onto the mattress when she lets him go. The color has drained from his face. He’s sweating into the bandages. For all her promises, it’s a traumatic injury. He has a long way to go until he’s good.

He catches her staring. Smiles. “Carolina?”

“Yes, York?” she asks.

“Will you stay with me?”

She knows she shouldn’t. She hasn’t taken a job since gathering intel with Florida. If anything, she should be putting on a strong public face. Showing Charon exactly who they’ve messed with.

But she’s here. York is smiling. Three nights ago, she wasn’t sure she would ever see that again. While she can never forget that they’re mercenaries, she sometimes forgets that her teammates are people. That they need her for more than assigning and supporting on jobs. (Maybe she’s even glad she didn’t punch Tex. That would have complicated things.)

Right now, York only wants one thing of her. This is the man who would live at Errera if they would let him (and if they would sell the coffee that he likes). He needs human interaction like he needs air. The thought of him lying in that basement alone, bleeding out and half-blind—

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll stay.”

She drags a chair over to the bedside where he can actually see her. Only then does he settle down, letting his shoulders relax into the pillows. When she swings her feet up to rest on the bed next to his hand, he doesn’t protest. Just lets a contented smile sneak back onto his face.

They lapse into companionable silence. At first she’s concerned about him; York is never quiet. Then she feels his touch on her feet, the flat of his fingers smoothing circles against her socks.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says. She’s telling herself as much as she tells him.

He shakes his head. “Doctor Grey—“

“I don’t care,” Carolina says. “You can work with one eye if it doesn’t recover.” She refuses to say “when.” “You’re not getting out of this so easily.”

He looks at the floor. “I can’t even get out of here.”

“We don’t want you to go,” she says. A sound breaks free of his chest. A laugh. She’s sure of it.

“Yes, Boss,” he says. She nudges his side with her foot, drawing a much clearer laugh this time.

“I’m sure you’ll be back to causing trouble in no time,” she says. “But, for now, it’s okay to sleep.”

He squeezes her foot with a gentle hand. “Promise?” he asks.

“I promise.”

Maybe a minute later, his hand slows. Stops. He’s asleep. Still, she doesn’t move. Just looks at his face and smiles.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispers. And they will. The Thief won’t be off his feet forever.

Even Charon Industries is going to know that before long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it.  
> Shoutout to Roosterteeth for creating such fascinating characters and Synnesai for her gorgeous art.

**Author's Note:**

> The Guns for Hire AU as a collaborative tumblr project inspired by the artwork of the fabulous Synnesai. Go check it out!


End file.
